Listen! Is that the calling of the hounds,
The hounds returning?
What wavering desolate horn is this that sounds,
So much like the wild hunt’s baying?
A trembling weary choir of voices
From the chilly gray air.
And they come, then,
From behind the old, mound-like gray hill,
A long-necked mourning choir on wings,
Late geese.
We are the last
Honks their song
And should have listened to the wind’s warnings.
Now autumn is ended
And winter’s wingbeats ruffle our tails.